Not So Much Annoying As Just Somewhat Puzzling
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: Great. I've been looking at your website. I'm going to be in Seattle in about a month on a business trip, and I want to make an appointment with you.
Me: Ah. So, were you wanting to do that now?
Caller: No, no - I don't really know my schedule. I don't really even know the exact dates.
Me: Okay – do you have any questions I can answer for you?
Caller: No, your website's very informative. I just wanted to tell you I'll be calling you.
Me: Okay, that sounds fine.
Caller: Great. Bye!
Click.
It's not that I mind, really…But one does wonder what, precisely, the purpose of this call was. He called me to tell me he'll be calling me? O-kay, I'll certainly be waiting for that – except, of course, that I don't know what his name is, or what days he'll be here, or what he's looking for in a session, or even if he's someone I would want to see. But aside from all that, I'll certainly be looking for his call.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Friday, May 28, 2004
Annoying Phone Call #4,122,893
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'm calling about your ad.
Me: Yes, that's right – what would you like to know?
I always ask this because I have no idea what information this person already has about me. There's no point to my launching into a spiel about fees, hours of availability, et cetera, if the caller already knows all that.
Caller: Could you describe yourself, please?
Oh, shit. I hate it when they say this. Now that we all have websites with photos, I don't get this question very often, thank god. Because what this guy wants me to do is describe the way I look in minute detail – my exact height, weight, age, measurements, including bra size, hair length, blah blah blah.
It's not that I don't think the guy's entitled to know what I look like. That's why I have pictures on the damn website. But the verbal run-down thing - well, I can't speak for everyone, but every sex worker I know personally really hates this. We all think it feels degrading to be asked to describe the way we look as if our attributes were the features on a used car. I've worked in places where the women all stood in a lineup for clients to choose from, and that didn't bother me at all. But this bothers me. So I won't do it.
Me: Did you see an ad of mine – is that how you got this number?
Caller: Yes.
Me: Okay, well, that’s a picture of me in the ad.
Caller: It's kind of a small picture. Would you say you were a C-cup or a D-cup?
I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
Me: I also have an extensive website with a lot of photos of me, and I do ask that everyone read over it before booking a session with me.
Caller: Oh, uh…I mean, I can't afford internet access.
The Thirty-Seconds rule strikes again! Thirty seconds on the phone, and you'll know if there's a chance in the world. And let me tell you, if this guy can't afford internet access, then he definitely can't afford me. In fact, he can't even afford to hear me talk about myself.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, I understand. Thanks a lot, buh-bye.
Click.
I hang up quickly before he can say another word. If you want to hear a girl talk about her tits, I think, you'll have to call somewhere else.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'm calling about your ad.
Me: Yes, that's right – what would you like to know?
I always ask this because I have no idea what information this person already has about me. There's no point to my launching into a spiel about fees, hours of availability, et cetera, if the caller already knows all that.
Caller: Could you describe yourself, please?
Oh, shit. I hate it when they say this. Now that we all have websites with photos, I don't get this question very often, thank god. Because what this guy wants me to do is describe the way I look in minute detail – my exact height, weight, age, measurements, including bra size, hair length, blah blah blah.
It's not that I don't think the guy's entitled to know what I look like. That's why I have pictures on the damn website. But the verbal run-down thing - well, I can't speak for everyone, but every sex worker I know personally really hates this. We all think it feels degrading to be asked to describe the way we look as if our attributes were the features on a used car. I've worked in places where the women all stood in a lineup for clients to choose from, and that didn't bother me at all. But this bothers me. So I won't do it.
Me: Did you see an ad of mine – is that how you got this number?
Caller: Yes.
Me: Okay, well, that’s a picture of me in the ad.
Caller: It's kind of a small picture. Would you say you were a C-cup or a D-cup?
I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
Me: I also have an extensive website with a lot of photos of me, and I do ask that everyone read over it before booking a session with me.
Caller: Oh, uh…I mean, I can't afford internet access.
The Thirty-Seconds rule strikes again! Thirty seconds on the phone, and you'll know if there's a chance in the world. And let me tell you, if this guy can't afford internet access, then he definitely can't afford me. In fact, he can't even afford to hear me talk about myself.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, I understand. Thanks a lot, buh-bye.
Click.
I hang up quickly before he can say another word. If you want to hear a girl talk about her tits, I think, you'll have to call somewhere else.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
No nasty stories today, sorry. I'm still deep in car-shopping-mode. The update is on that is: I went to the Honda dealership yesterday and drove one of the new Accords, and…I wasn't really impressed. The doors and the dash are too high, even with the seat raised I felt like I was sitting in the bottom of a bucket.
This totally bummed me out, because I just want to do this and be done with it, but I'm not going to buy a car I don't like, even though it's technically the right car for me.
So the Accord is like the guy I know I should marry, because he's so nice and reliable and dependable and all. But we didn't have much chemistry.
And my mind keeps wandering to that sexy guy over there at the Mitsubishi dealership, the Eclipse. (Not the Spyder, you understand – owning a convertible here in the land of liquid sunshine has always struck me not so much as optimism as willful denial.)
Mr. Eclipse – well, his reviews are not as four-star as the Accord. Nothing one can pin down to a specific problem – but he's just not as bulletproof as Mr. Accord. I can't be sure how he'd handle a long-term relationship. But, ooooohhh, he's fast and smooth and fun…
Then there's the dark horse, Mr. Toyota Celica. I think he might be a little…young for me. I see him most often in the company of boys between 18-25, and frankly, he's usually a bit overdressed for my taste. But if I spent some time getting to know him, I might see that he's a great guy underneath it all.
I am firmly resolved to not think about this guy, because he's out of my league. But damn he's fine.
This totally bummed me out, because I just want to do this and be done with it, but I'm not going to buy a car I don't like, even though it's technically the right car for me.
So the Accord is like the guy I know I should marry, because he's so nice and reliable and dependable and all. But we didn't have much chemistry.
And my mind keeps wandering to that sexy guy over there at the Mitsubishi dealership, the Eclipse. (Not the Spyder, you understand – owning a convertible here in the land of liquid sunshine has always struck me not so much as optimism as willful denial.)
Mr. Eclipse – well, his reviews are not as four-star as the Accord. Nothing one can pin down to a specific problem – but he's just not as bulletproof as Mr. Accord. I can't be sure how he'd handle a long-term relationship. But, ooooohhh, he's fast and smooth and fun…
Then there's the dark horse, Mr. Toyota Celica. I think he might be a little…young for me. I see him most often in the company of boys between 18-25, and frankly, he's usually a bit overdressed for my taste. But if I spent some time getting to know him, I might see that he's a great guy underneath it all.
I am firmly resolved to not think about this guy, because he's out of my league. But damn he's fine.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
I am poised on the brink of buying a new car, and I have a feeling that process is going to command a lot of my spare time for the next few days, as I gather price quotes via email, visit dealerships, and get sales-pitched relentlessly by determined guys with silk neckties and Michael Douglas-esque hair.
But I know exactly what I want - a Honda Accord coupe - so it's just a matter of beating them down to a reasonable price. (One of my old lovers was a car salesperson and she gave me all the dirt on how this works.)
I'm armed with my Consumer Reports invoice quotes, a competitive bid from CarsDirect.com, and a cool assurance that I don't have to buy this car today, or any day, until I get my price. Listen for the sound of salesmen gnashing their teeth and tearing their hair in frustration. Mwah ha ha ha haaaa....
But I know exactly what I want - a Honda Accord coupe - so it's just a matter of beating them down to a reasonable price. (One of my old lovers was a car salesperson and she gave me all the dirt on how this works.)
I'm armed with my Consumer Reports invoice quotes, a competitive bid from CarsDirect.com, and a cool assurance that I don't have to buy this car today, or any day, until I get my price. Listen for the sound of salesmen gnashing their teeth and tearing their hair in frustration. Mwah ha ha ha haaaa....
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
BDSM Word-of-the-Day: Domme. Noun. Pronunciation: 'däm
Domme is a made-up word, the faux-frenchified and feminized offspring of the abbreviation, "dom", which of course means "dominant". Both dom and domme are used as nouns: "he's a dom," or "she's a domme". But be aware that both words are pronounced exactly the same way: they rhyme with the name "Tom". "Domme" is absolutely not pronounced "dom-may" or "dom-mey".
Even aside from some people's cringe-inducing tendency to mispronounce this word, it isn't one of my favorite terms - it just seems clunky and affected. When I came out into the scene, people used the words "top" and "bottom" as flexible generic terms to indicate someone's dominant or submissive role or behavior, and I still use those terms a lot, even though they've fallen out of vogue. I was taught to use "Master" and "Mistress" mostly as terms of specific address, and only occasionally as descriptive terms.
And another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. Using the word "sub" - as either a noun or a verb - to refer to either a person or activity in BDSM is extremely gauche. And I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write "subbie" as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying "submissive".
One last word rant: Dom-i-nant, when used in this context, is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you're a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That's a verb. As you can see, they're spelled differently, and that's because they're two different fucking words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying "I'm a dominate Master.." I'm going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster's dictionary.
Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don't fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.
Domme is a made-up word, the faux-frenchified and feminized offspring of the abbreviation, "dom", which of course means "dominant". Both dom and domme are used as nouns: "he's a dom," or "she's a domme". But be aware that both words are pronounced exactly the same way: they rhyme with the name "Tom". "Domme" is absolutely not pronounced "dom-may" or "dom-mey".
Even aside from some people's cringe-inducing tendency to mispronounce this word, it isn't one of my favorite terms - it just seems clunky and affected. When I came out into the scene, people used the words "top" and "bottom" as flexible generic terms to indicate someone's dominant or submissive role or behavior, and I still use those terms a lot, even though they've fallen out of vogue. I was taught to use "Master" and "Mistress" mostly as terms of specific address, and only occasionally as descriptive terms.
And another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. Using the word "sub" - as either a noun or a verb - to refer to either a person or activity in BDSM is extremely gauche. And I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write "subbie" as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying "submissive".
One last word rant: Dom-i-nant, when used in this context, is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you're a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That's a verb. As you can see, they're spelled differently, and that's because they're two different fucking words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying "I'm a dominate Master.." I'm going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster's dictionary.
Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don't fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.
Monday, May 24, 2004
My friend Jae and I did a double together the other day. (Confused? A double = two sex workers, one client.) I'm taking a small risk in admitting to this here, because officially, I don't do doubles at all. Check my website, it says right there: I don't do doubles.
Except – very occasionally I do. If I know you well and I like you, and if I think you'll like Jae, and if the moon and stars are all aligned properly on the day you ask me oh-so-politely if such a thing is possible, then yeah, maybe I'll agree to arrange that.
And while I usually enjoy my sessions alone, there's no deny that having Jae around does make it more fun for me - although she has a terrible habit of making me break up laughing with her remarks. Hard to maintain the Mistress persona with that happening. Not that my guys really expect or want the stone-faced serious thing from me, but still, there are time when I am quite…intent, on what I'm doing, and having Jae crack wise and make me laugh is distracting. She's a total imp. In another place and time she'd have been the perfect court jester, dancing around in her cap and bells…
And the reason Jae is my only doubles partner is that she knows me so extremely well that it's easy. I've done a few doubles with other people, long ago, and while they weren't terrible, they were just a lot of work, because I had to orchestrate two people instead of one. Or, in the case of another Mistress, I had to try to give her the proper amount of airtime, while still subtly directing the progress of the session. (Of course, they were all my clients. I suppose if I was the guest star with someone else's client, it would be rather different.)
But Jae knows me, she knows my dungeon, she knows my equipment, she knows what kinds of things I use for what. When I say, "Get me the leather head-thingie with all the straps," she knows which one I mean. (She should: she's had it on.) She knows if I pick up a box of needles, I'm also going to need alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, and a sharps container, so she gets them. Easy.
The other thing about doubles that makes it challenging is that, as far as the interaction between Jae and I goes, they can be a sometimes challenging blend of a real scene and performance art. A lot of the clients we've seen together want to watch us play some, and it's certainly never hard for Jae and I to slip right into a scene. But it would be rude to get so very into our interaction that we ignore him, so we both have to stay conscious of keeping the energy balanced. It's easy enough for me – I'm the Mistress. But not everyone would be able to slide from bottom-space to performance mode as fluidly as Jae does. That's why she's always my first choice if I have to teach a class, put on a show, or – do a double.
Except – very occasionally I do. If I know you well and I like you, and if I think you'll like Jae, and if the moon and stars are all aligned properly on the day you ask me oh-so-politely if such a thing is possible, then yeah, maybe I'll agree to arrange that.
And while I usually enjoy my sessions alone, there's no deny that having Jae around does make it more fun for me - although she has a terrible habit of making me break up laughing with her remarks. Hard to maintain the Mistress persona with that happening. Not that my guys really expect or want the stone-faced serious thing from me, but still, there are time when I am quite…intent, on what I'm doing, and having Jae crack wise and make me laugh is distracting. She's a total imp. In another place and time she'd have been the perfect court jester, dancing around in her cap and bells…
And the reason Jae is my only doubles partner is that she knows me so extremely well that it's easy. I've done a few doubles with other people, long ago, and while they weren't terrible, they were just a lot of work, because I had to orchestrate two people instead of one. Or, in the case of another Mistress, I had to try to give her the proper amount of airtime, while still subtly directing the progress of the session. (Of course, they were all my clients. I suppose if I was the guest star with someone else's client, it would be rather different.)
But Jae knows me, she knows my dungeon, she knows my equipment, she knows what kinds of things I use for what. When I say, "Get me the leather head-thingie with all the straps," she knows which one I mean. (She should: she's had it on.) She knows if I pick up a box of needles, I'm also going to need alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, and a sharps container, so she gets them. Easy.
The other thing about doubles that makes it challenging is that, as far as the interaction between Jae and I goes, they can be a sometimes challenging blend of a real scene and performance art. A lot of the clients we've seen together want to watch us play some, and it's certainly never hard for Jae and I to slip right into a scene. But it would be rude to get so very into our interaction that we ignore him, so we both have to stay conscious of keeping the energy balanced. It's easy enough for me – I'm the Mistress. But not everyone would be able to slide from bottom-space to performance mode as fluidly as Jae does. That's why she's always my first choice if I have to teach a class, put on a show, or – do a double.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Quick note: I am teaching a BDSM skills-building workshop tonight at Seattle sex-toy store Toys In Babeland from 7:30-9:30.
I don't know if tickets are still available, but you can find out by calling the store at 206.328.2914
Maybe I'll see some of ya'll there...
Later: Don't click on the "Cunning Linguists" link right now, their URL has apparently been hijacked by some asshole porn sites, and if you go there, your browser will be spun around in endless cycle of tackiness. If it is not fixed soon, I'll have to delete the link...
I don't know if tickets are still available, but you can find out by calling the store at 206.328.2914
Maybe I'll see some of ya'll there...
Later: Don't click on the "Cunning Linguists" link right now, their URL has apparently been hijacked by some asshole porn sites, and if you go there, your browser will be spun around in endless cycle of tackiness. If it is not fixed soon, I'll have to delete the link...
Friday, May 21, 2004
Conversation with my friend R, who is a call girl, while driving in the car…
"So I'm sending some guys to you," she said, "because I like being kinky but they're really wanting a level of dominance that I'm not comfortable with."
"Well, what do they want?"
"Oh, like peeing and stuff." She makes a shoo-ing gesture with her hands, as if to ward off even the mere idea of anyone peeing on her designer sheets. R takes her bed-linens very seriously.
I, on the other hand, play on a vinyl-covered table that gets wiped down after every session with an industrial disinfectant so powerful that the mere fumes of it are probably killing computer viruses on the PC in my office. Pee does not scare me – especially when I'm the one doing the peeing.
"Sounds fine to me," I said. "Have you been busy?"
"Yeah, and that's cool. Except there's this one guy who keeps calling me back lately and I don't want to see him again."
"Why not?"
She sighs and twists restlessly. "He can't come. I don't know what his problem is, he's not an old guy or anything. He's got a weird dick, it's sort of V-shaped."
I look at her. "V-shaped? You mean it's got a bend in it?"
"No, I mean, it's small at the tip, and then it gets wider and wider, and it's pretty wide at the base."
I think about this. "Oh, okay."
"There should really be a coffee-table book of photos of weird-shaped dicks, because there are some really weird-looking ones." R is wandering off on a tangent now, as she often does. I pull her back into the conversational stream.
"So the guy with the V-shaped dick can't get off?"
"No, and it's a pain in the ass when they don't come. You don't get closure."
I laugh, but I know what she means. "Well, if they're okay with it, I'm okay with it. But if they're all anxious and frustrated, then that's a bad note to finish a session on."
"Oh! I hate it! I mean, I feel sorry for him and stuff, but god, come on!" She's laughing a little as well – but still, R is still very passionate about her insistence on other people's orgasms. "It's like, I feel like a bad lay, it's terrible. And I know I'm not a bad lay, so what's the problem?"
"Well, I've fucked you and I think you're a good lay," I say. She grins at me. "And if he's calling you back he must think you're a good lay, too. So it's nothing to do with you - he's probably just got some kind of medical issue."
"I know. But I hate it when I feel like I haven't done my job well. It's like seeing them come is being Employee of the Month or something."
"You must be Employee of the Month a whole fucking lot then," I say, laughing.
She laughs too. "Yeah, my months go by pretty quick. Every time you turn around…"
"So I'm sending some guys to you," she said, "because I like being kinky but they're really wanting a level of dominance that I'm not comfortable with."
"Well, what do they want?"
"Oh, like peeing and stuff." She makes a shoo-ing gesture with her hands, as if to ward off even the mere idea of anyone peeing on her designer sheets. R takes her bed-linens very seriously.
I, on the other hand, play on a vinyl-covered table that gets wiped down after every session with an industrial disinfectant so powerful that the mere fumes of it are probably killing computer viruses on the PC in my office. Pee does not scare me – especially when I'm the one doing the peeing.
"Sounds fine to me," I said. "Have you been busy?"
"Yeah, and that's cool. Except there's this one guy who keeps calling me back lately and I don't want to see him again."
"Why not?"
She sighs and twists restlessly. "He can't come. I don't know what his problem is, he's not an old guy or anything. He's got a weird dick, it's sort of V-shaped."
I look at her. "V-shaped? You mean it's got a bend in it?"
"No, I mean, it's small at the tip, and then it gets wider and wider, and it's pretty wide at the base."
I think about this. "Oh, okay."
"There should really be a coffee-table book of photos of weird-shaped dicks, because there are some really weird-looking ones." R is wandering off on a tangent now, as she often does. I pull her back into the conversational stream.
"So the guy with the V-shaped dick can't get off?"
"No, and it's a pain in the ass when they don't come. You don't get closure."
I laugh, but I know what she means. "Well, if they're okay with it, I'm okay with it. But if they're all anxious and frustrated, then that's a bad note to finish a session on."
"Oh! I hate it! I mean, I feel sorry for him and stuff, but god, come on!" She's laughing a little as well – but still, R is still very passionate about her insistence on other people's orgasms. "It's like, I feel like a bad lay, it's terrible. And I know I'm not a bad lay, so what's the problem?"
"Well, I've fucked you and I think you're a good lay," I say. She grins at me. "And if he's calling you back he must think you're a good lay, too. So it's nothing to do with you - he's probably just got some kind of medical issue."
"I know. But I hate it when I feel like I haven't done my job well. It's like seeing them come is being Employee of the Month or something."
"You must be Employee of the Month a whole fucking lot then," I say, laughing.
She laughs too. "Yeah, my months go by pretty quick. Every time you turn around…"
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Note: This is just a rough draft of some thoughts I've had...I don't usually post unfinished stuff, but frankly, I'm too busy to write anything else!
Random and Disjointed Reflections On Being A Pretty Girl
The other day I parked in a pay lot downtown and went into a store that validates for that lot. I did my shopping, but when I left the store and was about to present my ticket to the lot attendant, I realized I had forgotten to get it stamped. Damn, I thought, I don't want to go all the way back in there now. So I fluffed out my hair a little and smiled winningly at the attendant and explained how silly I'd been, could he please let me slide this one time?
I felt his eyes flick over me, and he smiled back, almost ruefully. "Yeah, all right, go ahead", he said. We both knew - it was a Pretty Girl Moment.
Before we go any further, let me make a few things clear. I can't even try to codify the difference between words like "pretty", and "beautiful", and all the other terms used to describe the physical manifestation of feminine charm. And it's definitely not within my power to define exactly what any of those words encompass. Prettiness has been defined a thousand different ways ever since people first began putting words to their own particular feminine ideal. I know that if you asked any two random people to describe me, one of them would say I have the face that launched a thousand ships and the body of a goddess. And one of them would shrug and say, "Matisse? Yeah, she's nice-looking, I guess." You cannot measure what's in the eye of the beholder.
But the majority opinion seems to be that through both a lucky spin on the genetic roulette wheel, and a lot of diligent care and maintenance, I am a Pretty Girl. And as I move through the everyday world, that's made my life easier on thousands of different occasions. University administrators, traffic cops, doormen, job interviewers and employers, apartment managers, auto mechanics, waiters, taxi drivers, hotel clerks – these are just a few of the types of men who've overlooked small transgressions, given me extra perks, or somehow gone out of their way for me because I'm a Pretty Girl.
I'm not talking about my career as a sex worker, you understand. I gave those men nothing except my smile and wow-you-are-such-a-great-guy gratitude. And most of the time I was perfectly sincere – if someone gives me a break, especially when I know I don't necessarily deserve it, I am grateful to them. So I show them a picture of themselves in my eyes, surrounded by a rosy glow of Great-Guyness.
Pretty-Girl mojo doesn't always work, of course, even when you really try. Being a Pretty Girl is sometimes like having been given a gift card without knowing precisely how much credit has been loaded onto it. It gets you things, but you know that at any moment, the store clerk could shake their head at you and tell you that you've reached your limit and you're out of luck.
And there are times when being a Pretty Girl is a pain in the ass. When I'm pumping gas into my car at 2 am, for example, and a car full of drunken teenage guys pulls into the gas station, it's a serious inconvenience. There have been many moments in life when I really wished I was invisible, because the way I looked was drawing me attention I didn't want.
But I know that someday, I will become invisible, because I'll get old. Perhaps I'll find that I have Cool-Old-Lady mojo then, but I don't know. I do know I'm going to delay the whole process as long as I can, though. I was at the gym recently, running on the treadmill, and I saw former sex-symbol Raquel Welch being interviewed on TV. She's sixty-two, and damn, she still looks pretty good. If she can do it, I can do it, I thought, kicking up the speed another notch.
I wonder a lot if other pretty girls are as aware of their Pretty Girl-ness and what it means, as I am. But it's hard to talk about this without feeling like you're coming off as some kind of Stepford Wife. So I've really only talked about with a few other women, close friends, who know that I really don't believe that my only value as a person is the way I look.
But I look at other women sometimes – women who, to be blunt about it, aren't pretty at all – and I feel slightly guilty. It's same kind of guilt I occasionally feel about being white, or coming from an upper-middle-class family, who could afford to send me to private schools and buy me a pony. I got something you didn't get.
And it doesn't seem like an easily rectifiable imbalance. I believe in self-improvement, but some things can't be changed - short of auditioning for shows like Extreme Makeover. What can they do but just live with it?
I also wonder exactly how my life would be different if I were exactly the same person on the inside, but I wasn't pretty on the outside. But I wouldn't be the same person, really, because who I am has been influenced by how people treat me, and how people treat me is influenced by how I look.
I think the bottom line is: I'm fascinated by power dynamics in general, and I think that the power of personal attractiveness is one of the most basic and undeniable examples of power dynamics I know.
Random and Disjointed Reflections On Being A Pretty Girl
The other day I parked in a pay lot downtown and went into a store that validates for that lot. I did my shopping, but when I left the store and was about to present my ticket to the lot attendant, I realized I had forgotten to get it stamped. Damn, I thought, I don't want to go all the way back in there now. So I fluffed out my hair a little and smiled winningly at the attendant and explained how silly I'd been, could he please let me slide this one time?
I felt his eyes flick over me, and he smiled back, almost ruefully. "Yeah, all right, go ahead", he said. We both knew - it was a Pretty Girl Moment.
Before we go any further, let me make a few things clear. I can't even try to codify the difference between words like "pretty", and "beautiful", and all the other terms used to describe the physical manifestation of feminine charm. And it's definitely not within my power to define exactly what any of those words encompass. Prettiness has been defined a thousand different ways ever since people first began putting words to their own particular feminine ideal. I know that if you asked any two random people to describe me, one of them would say I have the face that launched a thousand ships and the body of a goddess. And one of them would shrug and say, "Matisse? Yeah, she's nice-looking, I guess." You cannot measure what's in the eye of the beholder.
But the majority opinion seems to be that through both a lucky spin on the genetic roulette wheel, and a lot of diligent care and maintenance, I am a Pretty Girl. And as I move through the everyday world, that's made my life easier on thousands of different occasions. University administrators, traffic cops, doormen, job interviewers and employers, apartment managers, auto mechanics, waiters, taxi drivers, hotel clerks – these are just a few of the types of men who've overlooked small transgressions, given me extra perks, or somehow gone out of their way for me because I'm a Pretty Girl.
I'm not talking about my career as a sex worker, you understand. I gave those men nothing except my smile and wow-you-are-such-a-great-guy gratitude. And most of the time I was perfectly sincere – if someone gives me a break, especially when I know I don't necessarily deserve it, I am grateful to them. So I show them a picture of themselves in my eyes, surrounded by a rosy glow of Great-Guyness.
Pretty-Girl mojo doesn't always work, of course, even when you really try. Being a Pretty Girl is sometimes like having been given a gift card without knowing precisely how much credit has been loaded onto it. It gets you things, but you know that at any moment, the store clerk could shake their head at you and tell you that you've reached your limit and you're out of luck.
And there are times when being a Pretty Girl is a pain in the ass. When I'm pumping gas into my car at 2 am, for example, and a car full of drunken teenage guys pulls into the gas station, it's a serious inconvenience. There have been many moments in life when I really wished I was invisible, because the way I looked was drawing me attention I didn't want.
But I know that someday, I will become invisible, because I'll get old. Perhaps I'll find that I have Cool-Old-Lady mojo then, but I don't know. I do know I'm going to delay the whole process as long as I can, though. I was at the gym recently, running on the treadmill, and I saw former sex-symbol Raquel Welch being interviewed on TV. She's sixty-two, and damn, she still looks pretty good. If she can do it, I can do it, I thought, kicking up the speed another notch.
I wonder a lot if other pretty girls are as aware of their Pretty Girl-ness and what it means, as I am. But it's hard to talk about this without feeling like you're coming off as some kind of Stepford Wife. So I've really only talked about with a few other women, close friends, who know that I really don't believe that my only value as a person is the way I look.
But I look at other women sometimes – women who, to be blunt about it, aren't pretty at all – and I feel slightly guilty. It's same kind of guilt I occasionally feel about being white, or coming from an upper-middle-class family, who could afford to send me to private schools and buy me a pony. I got something you didn't get.
And it doesn't seem like an easily rectifiable imbalance. I believe in self-improvement, but some things can't be changed - short of auditioning for shows like Extreme Makeover. What can they do but just live with it?
I also wonder exactly how my life would be different if I were exactly the same person on the inside, but I wasn't pretty on the outside. But I wouldn't be the same person, really, because who I am has been influenced by how people treat me, and how people treat me is influenced by how I look.
I think the bottom line is: I'm fascinated by power dynamics in general, and I think that the power of personal attractiveness is one of the most basic and undeniable examples of power dynamics I know.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
It's weird how business comes in cycles. During the last week of April and the first week of May, business was dead, dead, dead. My phone was so quiet I occasionally called it myself to make sure it was working properly. It was mildly annoying, but I've been doing this for too long to panic over a slow spell, so I just occupied myself writing, hanging out with Max, puttering around the house, et cetera.
Talk about the calm before the storm…I don't know whether every kinky guy in Seattle is on the same lust-cycle or what, but for the last two weeks, the phone will NOT stop ringing, I'm booked to the max for a week in advance – it's crazy, I tell ya.
My regular guys are pretty philosophical about not being able to get me on the phone, not being able to get an appointment easily. They've been through it before.
(And BTW, Frequent Flyers, if you've called me, and I haven't called you back – this is why. Hang in there.)
But new guys sometimes get ornery. This is one of the four hundred and sixteen phone calls I got today - when I wasn't in session, that is.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'd like to get an appointment.
Now this isn't rude or anything – but it's really not my favorite way for people to begin this conversation. I like it when people say, "Hi, my name's Bill, I was calling about your service." Or, "to get some information." The persnickety bitch in me – and she's a well-developed presence – is put off a bit by the presumption that I'd make an appointment with just anyone. There's a little dance to be done here, boys, so don't go jumping the gun. (I am such a high-maintenance girl, aren't I?)
Me: Okay – have we met before?
Caller: No, I'm from out of town.
Me: I see. What's your name?
Caller: (noticeable pause) John.
Me: Well, John, I would be happy to talk about a session with you, but you should know that my first available appointment would be late next week some time.
Caller: Next week?
Me: Yes.
Caller: That's not going to work for me, I'm only in town for a few days.
Where the hell were you three weeks ago, I think, but the point is moot now.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, if you get back to Seattle some other time you can give me a call.
Caller: You don't have any time at all until next week? I was really looking for something tonight or tomorrow.
Me: No, I'm sorry. I have a very good regular clientele here in Seattle and I do stay quite busy.
Caller: Boy, I don't know how you're going to do much business if you're that busy.
This is such a moronic statement that I remain silent for about ten seconds, letting the stupidity of what he just said hang in the air.
Caller: I mean, much new business.
Me: (with a conspicuously patient sigh) As I said, John, why don't you call me some other time when you're in Seattle.
Caller: (ungraciously) Yeah, okay, bye.
Click.
Wow, I am so bummed I didn't get to meet that guy.
Talk about the calm before the storm…I don't know whether every kinky guy in Seattle is on the same lust-cycle or what, but for the last two weeks, the phone will NOT stop ringing, I'm booked to the max for a week in advance – it's crazy, I tell ya.
My regular guys are pretty philosophical about not being able to get me on the phone, not being able to get an appointment easily. They've been through it before.
(And BTW, Frequent Flyers, if you've called me, and I haven't called you back – this is why. Hang in there.)
But new guys sometimes get ornery. This is one of the four hundred and sixteen phone calls I got today - when I wasn't in session, that is.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'd like to get an appointment.
Now this isn't rude or anything – but it's really not my favorite way for people to begin this conversation. I like it when people say, "Hi, my name's Bill, I was calling about your service." Or, "to get some information." The persnickety bitch in me – and she's a well-developed presence – is put off a bit by the presumption that I'd make an appointment with just anyone. There's a little dance to be done here, boys, so don't go jumping the gun. (I am such a high-maintenance girl, aren't I?)
Me: Okay – have we met before?
Caller: No, I'm from out of town.
Me: I see. What's your name?
Caller: (noticeable pause) John.
Me: Well, John, I would be happy to talk about a session with you, but you should know that my first available appointment would be late next week some time.
Caller: Next week?
Me: Yes.
Caller: That's not going to work for me, I'm only in town for a few days.
Where the hell were you three weeks ago, I think, but the point is moot now.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, if you get back to Seattle some other time you can give me a call.
Caller: You don't have any time at all until next week? I was really looking for something tonight or tomorrow.
Me: No, I'm sorry. I have a very good regular clientele here in Seattle and I do stay quite busy.
Caller: Boy, I don't know how you're going to do much business if you're that busy.
This is such a moronic statement that I remain silent for about ten seconds, letting the stupidity of what he just said hang in the air.
Caller: I mean, much new business.
Me: (with a conspicuously patient sigh) As I said, John, why don't you call me some other time when you're in Seattle.
Caller: (ungraciously) Yeah, okay, bye.
Click.
Wow, I am so bummed I didn't get to meet that guy.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Odd Phone Call Of The Day
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: (who sounds very much like a young black man) Are you guys hiring?
Now, I'll refrain from the tirade about bad phone manners – even though you'd think that someone who's looking for a job would be a little more conscious of the basic rules of civilization, like saying "hello" to someone when they answer the phone, rather than just snapping out a question.
And I'll refrain from sighing about the typical American poverty of language that makes this caller address a solitary female as if she were both plural and male.
But I'm not going to rant about any of that. Really.
I actually get a fair number of phone calls from people apparently looking for work. Usually, though, they're from women, not men. I think most of these callers are just working their way through every single number in the adult section of the papers, because I definitely don't have a "help wanted" ad anywhere. So I just say no, and they hang up. It's usually a quick process, if not precisely a genteel one.
As opposed to the carpet-bomb school of job-seekers, there are a handful of people who specifically want to work for me, Mistress Matisse. But those callers generally try to present themselves and their credentials more persuasively - so much so that it's sometimes hard to get them to accept my "No" without speaking a bit more loudly than I'd prefer. But I am quite firm on this point, because I once managed a small "sensual massage" business, and since then my feelings about managing other people in a sex work environment can be summed up in exactly two words: Never. Again.
I'm really not sure exactly what position this particular caller thinks I might be willing to hire him for. The blunt manner of his inquiry suggests that he thinks he doesn't need to explain himself, which is interesting. I do see ads for escort services looking for "drivers", so perhaps that's what he's imagining.
Of course, there are plenty of independent male escorts, and I'm sure there are also male-escort services, although I don't personally know of any locally. But I can't imagine why someone would call me looking for a job as a male escort.
I'm momentarily tempted to ask him precisely what type of job he's looking for, but I decide I'd probably regret getting into that conversation.
Me: No.
Click. He's gone. A small mystery destined to remain unsolved.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: (who sounds very much like a young black man) Are you guys hiring?
Now, I'll refrain from the tirade about bad phone manners – even though you'd think that someone who's looking for a job would be a little more conscious of the basic rules of civilization, like saying "hello" to someone when they answer the phone, rather than just snapping out a question.
And I'll refrain from sighing about the typical American poverty of language that makes this caller address a solitary female as if she were both plural and male.
But I'm not going to rant about any of that. Really.
I actually get a fair number of phone calls from people apparently looking for work. Usually, though, they're from women, not men. I think most of these callers are just working their way through every single number in the adult section of the papers, because I definitely don't have a "help wanted" ad anywhere. So I just say no, and they hang up. It's usually a quick process, if not precisely a genteel one.
As opposed to the carpet-bomb school of job-seekers, there are a handful of people who specifically want to work for me, Mistress Matisse. But those callers generally try to present themselves and their credentials more persuasively - so much so that it's sometimes hard to get them to accept my "No" without speaking a bit more loudly than I'd prefer. But I am quite firm on this point, because I once managed a small "sensual massage" business, and since then my feelings about managing other people in a sex work environment can be summed up in exactly two words: Never. Again.
I'm really not sure exactly what position this particular caller thinks I might be willing to hire him for. The blunt manner of his inquiry suggests that he thinks he doesn't need to explain himself, which is interesting. I do see ads for escort services looking for "drivers", so perhaps that's what he's imagining.
Of course, there are plenty of independent male escorts, and I'm sure there are also male-escort services, although I don't personally know of any locally. But I can't imagine why someone would call me looking for a job as a male escort.
I'm momentarily tempted to ask him precisely what type of job he's looking for, but I decide I'd probably regret getting into that conversation.
Me: No.
Click. He's gone. A small mystery destined to remain unsolved.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
An example of a very sweet "thank-you" note sent to me by a happy client after a session. Not at all a requirement, but nice when it happens.
Of course, I did not literally "bust" his balls, in the sense of breaking or damaging them. I just kicked them - very carefully. Aficionados of ball-kicking are necessarily a brave group - it's an activity where, if you don't do it properly, you can injure someone in a not-fun, doctor-visit-requiring type of way. A Mistress's attention to the fine points is crucial.
This particular gentleman is rather tall, so rather than trying to pretend I'm one of the Radio City Rockettes, I had him get on all fours on the floor, knees splayed wide. He watched me in a mirror as I stood behind him and took precise aim at his dangling, vulnerable flesh. There was no bondage involved - he stayed in position because he trusted me and he wanted to be there. Sometimes after a particularly resounding smack of my foot on his ball-sack, we'd both say, "Oooooo, good one!".
I really like what I do.
Hello Mistress Matisse:
I don't usually e-mail a thank you but I just had to drop you a note and thank you for the wonderful session. You are such an artist that your moniker of Matisse is just perfect for you. Your palate of skills painted the most wonderful portrait for me yesterday; you combined just the right proportions of deviousness, mystery, pain, pleasure and sensuality.
The ball busting was fantastic (and still memorable as I found out when I woke up this morning). As you said, it is such a taboo, and that is part of what makes it so exciting, especially experiencing the taboo mutually with you. One can go online to Max Fisch and read about all types of ball busting experiences, and most of them seem to incorporate humiliation of the submissive. Now I know some people are into humiliation, (not my thing) but, really what kind of talent does a Dom have to possess to kick a guy in the balls and have him feel humiliated? Not much.
But to do ball busting and not make it humiliating, but make it a sensual experience as you did takes real talent. The way you would stop my balls from swinging then hold and caress them with your pointed boots and then kick them was fantastically sensual. The same can be said for the way you manipulated them and kicked them with your bare feet - not to mention that great slap sound you produced. You truly are the Nordstrom of Mistresses.
Thanks again and I hope to see you soon - I'm saving my pennies.
Remembering you fondly (especially my balls)
Of course, I did not literally "bust" his balls, in the sense of breaking or damaging them. I just kicked them - very carefully. Aficionados of ball-kicking are necessarily a brave group - it's an activity where, if you don't do it properly, you can injure someone in a not-fun, doctor-visit-requiring type of way. A Mistress's attention to the fine points is crucial.
This particular gentleman is rather tall, so rather than trying to pretend I'm one of the Radio City Rockettes, I had him get on all fours on the floor, knees splayed wide. He watched me in a mirror as I stood behind him and took precise aim at his dangling, vulnerable flesh. There was no bondage involved - he stayed in position because he trusted me and he wanted to be there. Sometimes after a particularly resounding smack of my foot on his ball-sack, we'd both say, "Oooooo, good one!".
I really like what I do.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Today is Max's birthday, and what a happy girl I am that his mama gave birth to him, ah-hem, a certain number of years ago. He's my sweetie and I adore him.
So no long post today. You can amuse yourself with my latest column, or you can read about an escort service bust here in Seattle. As much as I would like to see sex-work decriminalized, this news report doesn't make the arrestee sound very sympathetic, and what I've heard about him from underground channels doesn't contradict that impression. So it sort of sucks, but I'm just glad it wasn't any of my friends in that branch of the biz.
As for me, I'm going to see one adventurous boy this afternoon who has asked about exploring this particular type of all-natural naughtiness…
And then I'm going to devote the lion's share of my evening to making Max glad he's alive.
So no long post today. You can amuse yourself with my latest column, or you can read about an escort service bust here in Seattle. As much as I would like to see sex-work decriminalized, this news report doesn't make the arrestee sound very sympathetic, and what I've heard about him from underground channels doesn't contradict that impression. So it sort of sucks, but I'm just glad it wasn't any of my friends in that branch of the biz.
As for me, I'm going to see one adventurous boy this afternoon who has asked about exploring this particular type of all-natural naughtiness…
And then I'm going to devote the lion's share of my evening to making Max glad he's alive.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Listening To Messages
Every Monday through Friday, after I get done with my morning activities – which, depending on the day, may mean I've been extremely busy, or may mean I slept until 11:45 – I turn on my phone and listen to my messages.
YOU HAVE 9 NEW MESSAGES. PRESS 1 TO HEAR MESSAGES.
Beep!
"Hey Matisse, it's me, Bob. You know, Bob from Microsoft, I saw you about three weeks ago? Listen, do you have any time Wednesday? Like around 4? I'd love to see you. Call me back at 206-XXX-XXXX…"
END OF MESSAGE.
Oh yeah – Bob. Nervous first-timer in a Hawaiian shirt. He was nice, I'll call him back.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oooh, uh, you sexy bitch, I wanna lick yo-"
MESSAGE DELETED.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Uh, yeah, like, call me back as soon as you can, 206-XXX-XXXX"
END OF MESSAGE.
Sorry, if you don't leave a name, I don't call you back. Especially if you sound like you're stoned and you have very loud rock music blaring in the background.
NEXT MESSAGE:
Hello, Mistress Matisse, my name is Barbara, and I'd like to tell you about our exciting new adult advertising website, www.HereTodayGoneTomorrow.net. Text advertising rates start at only fifty dollars a month prepaid if you sign a five year contract and –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
It's a sad day when even sexual outlaws like me get rip-off telemarketing calls. What is the point of living on wild side if the tame side insists on following you around?
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oh, uh, hi, I'm calling for Mistress Matisse? My name is Quentin, and I've been thinking about calling you for a couple of years, but, you know, I'm just pretty nervous, because I don't have a lot of experience, and I was wondering about a couple of things. See, I've been interested in spanking ever since this little girl next door - well, she wasn't really next door, she lived down the street, but we used to play house together in this little playhouse she had, and she used to spank me and I didn't really understanding it then, but now looking back I can see that I really liked it, and I used to wonder about trying to find her, but you know, that was so many years ago, and she might not feel the same way anymore, but anyway I was wondering if you've met other guys like me that got spanked when they were little kids and liked it and how you sort of handle that and –" Beep!
END OF MESSAGE.
Oy. Quentin here might be a perfectly nice guy - once he gets over his unfortunate case of verbal diarrhea. It's not uncommon for people to be nervously chatty when they call me, and I can be patient with that. However, if they continue blathering nonstop all the way into the actual session, well, that's a mood-breaker I don't permit. But it's nothing a good inflatable gag won't fix. I'm guessing I'll get another message from Quentin somewhere in this string where he actually gets down to business.
NEXT MESSAGE:"Oh, Mistress, I wanna be your slave-slut, can I please be your slave? I want you to fuck me in the –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
Interesting how quickly they jump from, "be your slave" to telling me what to do. Seems like a rather loose interpretation of the word slave. But I never do get obscene phone callers who say, "Oh, Mistress, I wanna be your little Do-Me Queen." That would actually be rather refreshing.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"John. 253-XXX-XXXX."
END OF MESSAGE.
Oh, now what am I supposed to make of that? He's one of those my-phone-company-charges-by-the-word types. Would it have killed him to say, "Hi, my name is… Please call me back at… " ? He just sounds rude, and I don't like rude boys. He goes to the bottom of the call-back list, and you know, I just may not get around to calling him at all.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Hey Matisse, it's Marty. Call me, let's get together."
END OF MESSAGE.
Yes, if you come see me twice a month for four-plus years, you can leave me that kind of message, too, and I'll put your name right at the top of the call-back list. But there is no line-jumping in The I-Don't-Have-To-Leave-My-Number-Because-It's-Programmed-Into-Matisse's-Phone Club. Certain things take time.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oh, um, hi, Mistress, it's Quentin, sorry about that, I guess I talked too long on the last message, but, um, so I was wondering about a session? Because I had a kind of special request and I don't know if you do that or what, and, you know, it's kinda personal and all, but, I was wondering…Would you, um, be willing to wear, like, sort of a kind of a girlish dress, and pretend that I'm a naughty little boy? I mean, if that's okay, because I know your website says you do domestic discipline and stuff, but I don't want to offend you by asking you for that, so if you're not okay with doing that then that's fine too, but it's a really big fantasy of mine and stuff…Oh I guess I should give you my phone number before I get cut off, again, it's 206-XXX-XXXX. So, I'm looking forward to talking to you, I should be home all afternoon, except if I run out for a few minutes, that might be around three, but I will be right back, so –"
END OF MESSAGE.
Quentin gets cut off before he can give me all his potential movements for the next eight hours. Perhaps I'll do a scene with Quentin where I only allow him to speak one sentence, of ten words or less, every three minutes. Hey, I've got an egg timer.
Every Monday through Friday, after I get done with my morning activities – which, depending on the day, may mean I've been extremely busy, or may mean I slept until 11:45 – I turn on my phone and listen to my messages.
YOU HAVE 9 NEW MESSAGES. PRESS 1 TO HEAR MESSAGES.
Beep!
"Hey Matisse, it's me, Bob. You know, Bob from Microsoft, I saw you about three weeks ago? Listen, do you have any time Wednesday? Like around 4? I'd love to see you. Call me back at 206-XXX-XXXX…"
END OF MESSAGE.
Oh yeah – Bob. Nervous first-timer in a Hawaiian shirt. He was nice, I'll call him back.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oooh, uh, you sexy bitch, I wanna lick yo-"
MESSAGE DELETED.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Uh, yeah, like, call me back as soon as you can, 206-XXX-XXXX"
END OF MESSAGE.
Sorry, if you don't leave a name, I don't call you back. Especially if you sound like you're stoned and you have very loud rock music blaring in the background.
NEXT MESSAGE:
Hello, Mistress Matisse, my name is Barbara, and I'd like to tell you about our exciting new adult advertising website, www.HereTodayGoneTomorrow.net. Text advertising rates start at only fifty dollars a month prepaid if you sign a five year contract and –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
It's a sad day when even sexual outlaws like me get rip-off telemarketing calls. What is the point of living on wild side if the tame side insists on following you around?
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oh, uh, hi, I'm calling for Mistress Matisse? My name is Quentin, and I've been thinking about calling you for a couple of years, but, you know, I'm just pretty nervous, because I don't have a lot of experience, and I was wondering about a couple of things. See, I've been interested in spanking ever since this little girl next door - well, she wasn't really next door, she lived down the street, but we used to play house together in this little playhouse she had, and she used to spank me and I didn't really understanding it then, but now looking back I can see that I really liked it, and I used to wonder about trying to find her, but you know, that was so many years ago, and she might not feel the same way anymore, but anyway I was wondering if you've met other guys like me that got spanked when they were little kids and liked it and how you sort of handle that and –" Beep!
END OF MESSAGE.
Oy. Quentin here might be a perfectly nice guy - once he gets over his unfortunate case of verbal diarrhea. It's not uncommon for people to be nervously chatty when they call me, and I can be patient with that. However, if they continue blathering nonstop all the way into the actual session, well, that's a mood-breaker I don't permit. But it's nothing a good inflatable gag won't fix. I'm guessing I'll get another message from Quentin somewhere in this string where he actually gets down to business.
NEXT MESSAGE:"Oh, Mistress, I wanna be your slave-slut, can I please be your slave? I want you to fuck me in the –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
Interesting how quickly they jump from, "be your slave" to telling me what to do. Seems like a rather loose interpretation of the word slave. But I never do get obscene phone callers who say, "Oh, Mistress, I wanna be your little Do-Me Queen." That would actually be rather refreshing.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"John. 253-XXX-XXXX."
END OF MESSAGE.
Oh, now what am I supposed to make of that? He's one of those my-phone-company-charges-by-the-word types. Would it have killed him to say, "Hi, my name is… Please call me back at… " ? He just sounds rude, and I don't like rude boys. He goes to the bottom of the call-back list, and you know, I just may not get around to calling him at all.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Hey Matisse, it's Marty. Call me, let's get together."
END OF MESSAGE.
Yes, if you come see me twice a month for four-plus years, you can leave me that kind of message, too, and I'll put your name right at the top of the call-back list. But there is no line-jumping in The I-Don't-Have-To-Leave-My-Number-Because-It's-Programmed-Into-Matisse's-Phone Club. Certain things take time.
NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oh, um, hi, Mistress, it's Quentin, sorry about that, I guess I talked too long on the last message, but, um, so I was wondering about a session? Because I had a kind of special request and I don't know if you do that or what, and, you know, it's kinda personal and all, but, I was wondering…Would you, um, be willing to wear, like, sort of a kind of a girlish dress, and pretend that I'm a naughty little boy? I mean, if that's okay, because I know your website says you do domestic discipline and stuff, but I don't want to offend you by asking you for that, so if you're not okay with doing that then that's fine too, but it's a really big fantasy of mine and stuff…Oh I guess I should give you my phone number before I get cut off, again, it's 206-XXX-XXXX. So, I'm looking forward to talking to you, I should be home all afternoon, except if I run out for a few minutes, that might be around three, but I will be right back, so –"
END OF MESSAGE.
Quentin gets cut off before he can give me all his potential movements for the next eight hours. Perhaps I'll do a scene with Quentin where I only allow him to speak one sentence, of ten words or less, every three minutes. Hey, I've got an egg timer.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
This guy got one important thing wrong, and so did this guy, and so did these people.
They're wrong for calling this woman a dominatrix.
They're wrong for calling this woman a dominatrix.
No. I'm a dominatrix, and I'm disgusted by this abuse. Whether Lynndie English was a unwilling pawn or a gleeful participant, she is in no way worthy of the title dominatrix. This is not BDSM, because BDSM, by definition, is consensual. This isn't. It's abuse, plain and simple.
And if you profess to be outraged by this, tagging Private English with a sexy title is a strange way of showing it. What kind of message are you really sending? Would you call an accused rapist "a stud"? A "ladies man"? A "love god"?
I don't eroticise non-consensual violence. It's a damn shame some so-called "normal" people do.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Rare Occurrence yesterday: I got blown off by a client.
I'd say I get stood up – as I define that term - about three, maybe four times a year. "Being stood up" means: I'm there at my studio, I'm dressed and ready, and he doesn't show.
My "stood up" rate is so low for several reasons. Number one, it's new clients who are, by far, the biggest no-show risk. I'm at a point in my career where I see perhaps one new person a week- the rest of my appointments are guys I know.
Everyone who is seeing me for the first time always has to confirm with me the morning of the appointment. Now, I do very occasionally get new clients who confirm in the morning and then don't show, but that's quite rare. So I generally know hours ahead of time if a new person has gotten cold feet. I don't like people making appointments and then not keeping them, but with this system at least I'm not there waiting and there's a chance I can re-book the time with someone else.
Once in a while a new guy will forget – or something – to confirm in the morning, and then call me shortly before his appointment time, acting as if he thinks it's still a go. But it's not going to happen. I won't be keeping the appointment, and I won't rebook with that guy, either. I have rules, and if you can't follow the rules at this stage of the game, it's not going to get any better.
But my blow-off guy yesterday wasn't a new guy. He's one of those clients – I suppose now I should call him an ex-client – who's seen me about two or three times a year for the last couple of years. So not a real steady regular, but certainly a known entity. He's a nice guy when you're with him, attractive and charming. But when he called to make the appointment, my brain was running a little more slowly than it should have. Here's what happened:
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Hey, it's me, Mr. No Show.
Me: Oh, hi, baby, how you doing?
As I say this, my brain grabs the name and does a fast search through the mental hard drive. Ping! Up pops an image of a face and the thought: yeah, we know this guy, and he's cool.
Mr. No Show: Just great. Listen, can I get an appointment Monday at 2?
Me: Monday at 2? I think that's open, let me check - yeah, that works. Okay, fine, Monday at two, we're on.
Mr. No Show: Terrific! See you then.
Click. He hangs up.
And now, about three seconds too late, my brain pulls up another bit of info: Yeah, he's cool - except that he blew you off that one time. Make sure to tell him to call and confirm Monday morning, so you don’t go all the way over there and get dressed and ready for nothing!
Shit.
And of course I don't have contact info for him, dammit, because I don't require it. I'll certainly take an email addy or a phone number if someone's willing to give it to me, but I don't insist. And 99% of the time I wouldn't need it anyway.
So Mr. No Show was already in the category of clients that the English would call, "dodgy". That means "of uncertain outcome; especially fraught with risk". Dodgy clients always have to call to confirm, too - except when I let them get off the phone too quickly.
After Mr. No Show's previous no-show, which was about two years ago, he called and apologized and I let him sweet-talk me into forgiving him and taking him back as a client. (Some financial reparations were also called for.)
But this time, I have a feeling I've seen the last of him. It's just a hunch. I'll keep you posted if he calls up with some creative excuse; "The dog ate my cell phone!" Riiiight…
I'd say I get stood up – as I define that term - about three, maybe four times a year. "Being stood up" means: I'm there at my studio, I'm dressed and ready, and he doesn't show.
My "stood up" rate is so low for several reasons. Number one, it's new clients who are, by far, the biggest no-show risk. I'm at a point in my career where I see perhaps one new person a week- the rest of my appointments are guys I know.
Everyone who is seeing me for the first time always has to confirm with me the morning of the appointment. Now, I do very occasionally get new clients who confirm in the morning and then don't show, but that's quite rare. So I generally know hours ahead of time if a new person has gotten cold feet. I don't like people making appointments and then not keeping them, but with this system at least I'm not there waiting and there's a chance I can re-book the time with someone else.
Once in a while a new guy will forget – or something – to confirm in the morning, and then call me shortly before his appointment time, acting as if he thinks it's still a go. But it's not going to happen. I won't be keeping the appointment, and I won't rebook with that guy, either. I have rules, and if you can't follow the rules at this stage of the game, it's not going to get any better.
But my blow-off guy yesterday wasn't a new guy. He's one of those clients – I suppose now I should call him an ex-client – who's seen me about two or three times a year for the last couple of years. So not a real steady regular, but certainly a known entity. He's a nice guy when you're with him, attractive and charming. But when he called to make the appointment, my brain was running a little more slowly than it should have. Here's what happened:
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Hey, it's me, Mr. No Show.
Me: Oh, hi, baby, how you doing?
As I say this, my brain grabs the name and does a fast search through the mental hard drive. Ping! Up pops an image of a face and the thought: yeah, we know this guy, and he's cool.
Mr. No Show: Just great. Listen, can I get an appointment Monday at 2?
Me: Monday at 2? I think that's open, let me check - yeah, that works. Okay, fine, Monday at two, we're on.
Mr. No Show: Terrific! See you then.
Click. He hangs up.
And now, about three seconds too late, my brain pulls up another bit of info: Yeah, he's cool - except that he blew you off that one time. Make sure to tell him to call and confirm Monday morning, so you don’t go all the way over there and get dressed and ready for nothing!
Shit.
And of course I don't have contact info for him, dammit, because I don't require it. I'll certainly take an email addy or a phone number if someone's willing to give it to me, but I don't insist. And 99% of the time I wouldn't need it anyway.
So Mr. No Show was already in the category of clients that the English would call, "dodgy". That means "of uncertain outcome; especially fraught with risk". Dodgy clients always have to call to confirm, too - except when I let them get off the phone too quickly.
After Mr. No Show's previous no-show, which was about two years ago, he called and apologized and I let him sweet-talk me into forgiving him and taking him back as a client. (Some financial reparations were also called for.)
But this time, I have a feeling I've seen the last of him. It's just a hunch. I'll keep you posted if he calls up with some creative excuse; "The dog ate my cell phone!" Riiiight…
Monday, May 10, 2004
I had dinner at Hana with Miss K a few days ago. I don't recall if I've mentioned this, but Miss K is an independent call girl. So whenever we do dinner, it's an opportunity to have a Bitch-About-Work Fiesta. We both like what we do, but sometimes you just have to vent to someone who gets it.
"Okay, who gets to go first?" I asked.
"Oh, I think that would have to be – ME!" she answered
"Ooo, that good, huh? Well, let me have it, baby."
"Fuckin' A, the weirdo I saw this week – you won't believe what he did."
I start laughing a little already, just watching her head do that snakelike swivel of outrage. Miss K has a background in theatre, and it shows: her eyes, her hands, her shoulders – they all eloquently express her total disdain for this man who dared offend her. When all six feet of an irritated Amazon queen gets going, it's better than a floor show. I love having such entertaining friends.
"So, it was a new guy, and he sounded a little weird on the phone, but not scary-weird, just no-social-skills-weird."
I understand this perfectly. It's nice when one gets to see sophisticated men as clients, but frankly, if it weren't for guys with no social skills, there'd be a lot of hungry sex workers in the world.
"He arrives for the appointment ten minutes early." We share a grimace. We hate it when people are early, since we're always flying around getting ready until the last possible moment.
"I have him sit down on the couch in the living room and ask him to wait for a few minutes. I leave the room for, oh, maybe five minutes. When I come back into the room-" she leans forward for emphasis, "he's rearranging all my fucking furniture."
"You're kidding me?"
"I'm serious. He's moved the couch and coffee table, and he's got the edge of the area rug, and he's pulling on it."
I sit there silently for a moment, picturing this. "That's bizarre."
"Oh - and did I mention he's naked?"
I give a whoop of laughter. "No!"
She gestures with her hands to indicate that she can find no words to express her incredulity. I try to stop laughing, not because it offends her – we always play these kinds of incidents for laughs with each other – but because it's so outré that I have to say:
"So you asked him what the hell he was doing, right?"
"Oh yes," she says, with a rising inflection that bodes ill for the nude furniture mover. "Yes, I asked him what he was doing. And he told me – get ready for this – he told me that in his fantasy, the room was arranged differently."
I can hardly speak for laughing. "He- he- he had a fantasy about your living room furniture?" I really don't know what the staff at Hana must make of our conversations. I'm sure they think we are very, very strange.
"Apparently he felt it was important."
"Okay, you win the prize for weirdest person of the week. So what did you do?"
"Well, I just stood there for a minute and gave him a look. And then I told him that he shouldn't have moved my furniture without permission, and he apologized. And then I asked him if the way that I looked more or less fit with his fantasy, because I really wasn't interested in having him try to rearrange me."
"Oh, good one."
"So he apologized again, and,"- she shrugged - "we did the date."
Of course she did, because for all her show of indignation, Miss K has the generosity of spirit to forgive faux pas like these. It's one of the traits that makes her a good friend, and I also consider it essential to being a good sex worker. Yeah, it's great to have a good figure and a pretty face and the technical skills that go along with your particular speciality. But if you don't have some kindness and compassion to give your clients, they'll feel that, and a lot of them won't come back. That's true in any branch of the sex industry - even mine.
"Okay, who gets to go first?" I asked.
"Oh, I think that would have to be – ME!" she answered
"Ooo, that good, huh? Well, let me have it, baby."
"Fuckin' A, the weirdo I saw this week – you won't believe what he did."
I start laughing a little already, just watching her head do that snakelike swivel of outrage. Miss K has a background in theatre, and it shows: her eyes, her hands, her shoulders – they all eloquently express her total disdain for this man who dared offend her. When all six feet of an irritated Amazon queen gets going, it's better than a floor show. I love having such entertaining friends.
"So, it was a new guy, and he sounded a little weird on the phone, but not scary-weird, just no-social-skills-weird."
I understand this perfectly. It's nice when one gets to see sophisticated men as clients, but frankly, if it weren't for guys with no social skills, there'd be a lot of hungry sex workers in the world.
"He arrives for the appointment ten minutes early." We share a grimace. We hate it when people are early, since we're always flying around getting ready until the last possible moment.
"I have him sit down on the couch in the living room and ask him to wait for a few minutes. I leave the room for, oh, maybe five minutes. When I come back into the room-" she leans forward for emphasis, "he's rearranging all my fucking furniture."
"You're kidding me?"
"I'm serious. He's moved the couch and coffee table, and he's got the edge of the area rug, and he's pulling on it."
I sit there silently for a moment, picturing this. "That's bizarre."
"Oh - and did I mention he's naked?"
I give a whoop of laughter. "No!"
She gestures with her hands to indicate that she can find no words to express her incredulity. I try to stop laughing, not because it offends her – we always play these kinds of incidents for laughs with each other – but because it's so outré that I have to say:
"So you asked him what the hell he was doing, right?"
"Oh yes," she says, with a rising inflection that bodes ill for the nude furniture mover. "Yes, I asked him what he was doing. And he told me – get ready for this – he told me that in his fantasy, the room was arranged differently."
I can hardly speak for laughing. "He- he- he had a fantasy about your living room furniture?" I really don't know what the staff at Hana must make of our conversations. I'm sure they think we are very, very strange.
"Apparently he felt it was important."
"Okay, you win the prize for weirdest person of the week. So what did you do?"
"Well, I just stood there for a minute and gave him a look. And then I told him that he shouldn't have moved my furniture without permission, and he apologized. And then I asked him if the way that I looked more or less fit with his fantasy, because I really wasn't interested in having him try to rearrange me."
"Oh, good one."
"So he apologized again, and,"- she shrugged - "we did the date."
Of course she did, because for all her show of indignation, Miss K has the generosity of spirit to forgive faux pas like these. It's one of the traits that makes her a good friend, and I also consider it essential to being a good sex worker. Yeah, it's great to have a good figure and a pretty face and the technical skills that go along with your particular speciality. But if you don't have some kindness and compassion to give your clients, they'll feel that, and a lot of them won't come back. That's true in any branch of the sex industry - even mine.
Sunday, May 09, 2004
An Event Reminder For Local Folks
I'm going to be teaching a workshop at the Seattle sex toy store Toys In Babeland on May 23rd.
The topic will be "Erotic Impact Play". My partner Max will also be teaching "Rope Bondage 101". It'll be a great pair of classes, and a great opportunity to say hi to me! My TIB classes always sell out, so get tickets in advance through the website.
Which brings me to another thought…I do like teaching people about SM, and so while I get a lot of email from people who have question about BDSM, I generally don't mind answering simple questions. I think it's sort of a good kinky karma thing on my part.
But some people who write to me ask me for detailed explanations about rather complex BDSM issues or advanced techniques. Sometimes they want me to give them a lesson plan on how to do a BDSM scene with their partner. I usually tell them that I'd have to write a whole book to do these kinds of questions justice, and actually, there a number of excellent books on the topic already.
If you're interested learning about the psychology of BDSM, and why people like it, I'd recommend Dr.Gloria Brame's book, Different Loving. (She has a rather large website as well.)
Want to learn how to do it with your sweetie? Greenery Press publishes a bunch of easy-to-understand books on a variety of BDSM specialties, as well as some A-to-Z theory-and-technique books, like the venerable SM 101, by Jay Wiseman.
Looking for good fiction to wank to? Check out the Quality SM online bookstore. I also recommend the work of kink veteran Pat Califia, or my friend Jeff Gord's books, at House of Gord.
As I said, I don't mind polite people asking me multiple choice/yes-or-no, or short-answer questions. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to write ten-thousand-word emails.
And, frankly, I tend to look somewhat askance at people who aren't willing to exercise their brains enough to learn some things on their own. If you aren't willing to do a little work on your end – and yes, that may include forking out a few bucks to support some starving kinky author – then I'm not terribly inclined to spoon-feed you for free.
I sound rather severe, don't I? But of course, that is one of the perks of my profession.
I'm going to be teaching a workshop at the Seattle sex toy store Toys In Babeland on May 23rd.
The topic will be "Erotic Impact Play". My partner Max will also be teaching "Rope Bondage 101". It'll be a great pair of classes, and a great opportunity to say hi to me! My TIB classes always sell out, so get tickets in advance through the website.
Which brings me to another thought…I do like teaching people about SM, and so while I get a lot of email from people who have question about BDSM, I generally don't mind answering simple questions. I think it's sort of a good kinky karma thing on my part.
But some people who write to me ask me for detailed explanations about rather complex BDSM issues or advanced techniques. Sometimes they want me to give them a lesson plan on how to do a BDSM scene with their partner. I usually tell them that I'd have to write a whole book to do these kinds of questions justice, and actually, there a number of excellent books on the topic already.
If you're interested learning about the psychology of BDSM, and why people like it, I'd recommend Dr.Gloria Brame's book, Different Loving. (She has a rather large website as well.)
Want to learn how to do it with your sweetie? Greenery Press publishes a bunch of easy-to-understand books on a variety of BDSM specialties, as well as some A-to-Z theory-and-technique books, like the venerable SM 101, by Jay Wiseman.
Looking for good fiction to wank to? Check out the Quality SM online bookstore. I also recommend the work of kink veteran Pat Califia, or my friend Jeff Gord's books, at House of Gord.
As I said, I don't mind polite people asking me multiple choice/yes-or-no, or short-answer questions. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to write ten-thousand-word emails.
And, frankly, I tend to look somewhat askance at people who aren't willing to exercise their brains enough to learn some things on their own. If you aren't willing to do a little work on your end – and yes, that may include forking out a few bucks to support some starving kinky author – then I'm not terribly inclined to spoon-feed you for free.
I sound rather severe, don't I? But of course, that is one of the perks of my profession.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
Weird Call Of The Day:
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Um, I'm calling because I need to cancel my appointment tomorrow…
Me: Huh…An appointment with me? Tomorrow? What's your name?
Caller: Bob.
Me: Well, Bob, I don't have anyone booked for tomorrow. When did you and I make this appointment? Because I don't have any recollection of talking to you.
Caller: Oh – um, it may not have been with you.
Me: What do you mean?
Caller: I had an appointment with somebody, but I'm not sure if it was with you. It was someone in this section…But I can't make it, so I'm just calling everybody in the paper.
Me: You don't remember who you made an appointment with, so you're just calling everyone in the "fetish" section of the adult ads.
Caller: Yeah.
Me: O-kay. Well, it wasn't me…Better luck elsewhere.
I hung up and thought, I don't know whether he's a twit for forgetting who he made an appointment with, or a polite guy for calling every mistress in town to try to cancel it instead of just blowing it off. Some encounters defy easy categorization.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Um, I'm calling because I need to cancel my appointment tomorrow…
Me: Huh…An appointment with me? Tomorrow? What's your name?
Caller: Bob.
Me: Well, Bob, I don't have anyone booked for tomorrow. When did you and I make this appointment? Because I don't have any recollection of talking to you.
Caller: Oh – um, it may not have been with you.
Me: What do you mean?
Caller: I had an appointment with somebody, but I'm not sure if it was with you. It was someone in this section…But I can't make it, so I'm just calling everybody in the paper.
Me: You don't remember who you made an appointment with, so you're just calling everyone in the "fetish" section of the adult ads.
Caller: Yeah.
Me: O-kay. Well, it wasn't me…Better luck elsewhere.
I hung up and thought, I don't know whether he's a twit for forgetting who he made an appointment with, or a polite guy for calling every mistress in town to try to cancel it instead of just blowing it off. Some encounters defy easy categorization.
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